


paper walls

by seasaltgasoline



Series: these hands are meant to hold [4]
Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: F/M, Moving In Together, Romance, Seoul, Shotgunning, Smoking, minho and seungmin do appear in this fic but very briefly, not very explicit but explicit enough, some sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28444728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasaltgasoline/pseuds/seasaltgasoline
Summary: It’s obvious in hindsight. (or: how you and Chris end up moving in together)(an interlude, set almost a year aftermidnight city lights)
Relationships: Bang Chan/Reader
Series: these hands are meant to hold [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018063
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	paper walls

**Author's Note:**

> \- This is part of [these hands are meant to hold](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018063) so you’ll probably wanna read the other fics first. This doesn’t follow the usual pattern the other fics in this series have - consider it an interlude, a snapshot, a change of pace. I just really wanted to write this, even if it didn’t fit in with the cadence I envisioned for the series.  
> \- At this point, Y/N has been living in Korea for just over six months, and she and Chris have been together for nearly two years.  
> \- Do I know anything about how apartment rental in Korea works? No. Do I know anything about how Seoul is laid out? No. Did I bother to Google? Absolutely not. Please ignore all inaccuracies.  
> \- Sometimes I write smut for the sake of writing smut, even when it adds no value to the plot. #yolo  
> \- Much love to my [Ellie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkyteal/pseuds/heyheybrownieboy) for beta-ing as always!  
> \- Playlist: ‘This is Chung Ha’ on Spotify. Here’s wishing her a speedy recovery!!

***

You’re sitting at the back of the venue, sipping on your whiskey and coke, gazing out at the crowd in the aftermath of the show. There’s music in the air, the bass heavy and thumping, and you’re a little out of place in your pencil skirt and cream sweater, more business district chic than Friday night partygoer, but you’re used to it. 

“Noona!” a voice calls, and you turn to smile at Changbin, weaving his way through the crowd towards you, Han bounding along behind him. Chris is pulling up the rear as usual, handsome as always in a fitted black shirt and dark jeans. He has a tendency to hang back, to make sure everyone has gone ahead before he moves along.

It’s endearing.

“Good job guys,” you tell them, because it _was_ a good set, 3RACHA tearing up the stage as they always do. You gesture to the tray of shots you ordered for them, and Han grins, clambering onto the stool.

“You’re a godsend, Y/N,” he says, and you smile. 

Chris slings his arm around you, tipping your head up to kiss you in greeting, soft and slow and slightly incongruous with the throbbing beats coming out from the speakers. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, and press your lips to his cheek when you pull away, smiling softly when he ducks his head to press your foreheads together, a brief moment of affection in the flashing lights. 

Han makes a noise, because he’s allegedly allergic to PDA.

“Shots!” he declares, shoving one into Changbin’s hand, and you and Chris acquiesce, taking glasses of your own, the four of you tossing back your drinks in a synchronized motion. 

The next two hours pass in a blur, various people - from fellow musicians to fans of their music - coming up to say hi and to chat. You shake hands with various people, Chris tucked up against you, firm and unwavering, making small talk over the music. 

Eventually, the four of you stumble out of the party, and wind up at a late-night fried chicken restaurant, steadily working your way through plates of yangnyeom chicken and sipping on soda. 

“You look exhausted, Y/N,” Han says, tearing into a drumstick, “long day at the office?” 

“Longer than it should have been,” you say, wryly, “I had to stay late to finish up some work and I lost track of time - Somin kicked me out and I still wound up missing the first half of your set.” 

Somin, your assistant, is an absolute terror when she wants to be, but she's the main reason you get out of the office at a reasonable hour most days.

“You didn’t miss much,” Chris says, smiling, “we didn’t perform anything new, you’ve seen it all before.”

“Still,” you say, and he presses a kiss to your cheek, sticky and sweet with sauce, and you flap your hand at him, wiping at your face with your thumb. 

He laughs, and you catch his jaw in your hand, brushing your thumb, sauce-sticky, over his lips.

His tongue flicks out, to lick it, and Han groans. 

Changbin coos. 

“The two of you are so cute together,” he says, dreamily, “it’s like something out of a romance movie.”

“A B-rated one, maybe,” Han interjects, because he’s a little shit, “but seriously, Y/N, we’re so happy you moved here, Chan-hyung is way easier to deal with when you’re around.” 

“Oi, what’s that supposed to mean?” Chris retorts, and the table descends into chaos.

You’ve been in Korea for six months, after you uprooted your life to move to a new city, partially for Chris and partially for a career move that’s giving you international exposure and more experience, and so far you’re enjoying it. Adapting to life in Seoul is a work in progress, given that you’re trying to figure out the language and the culture and the subway system and food delivery all at once, but you’ve never backed down from a challenge, and having Chris with you makes things - well, not easier, but easier to handle. 

It doesn’t take long to finish the food, and you laugh when Chris and Changbin squabble over the bill, Han rolling his eyes. You’d been told in no uncertain terms that you weren’t allowed to pay, as you’d already covered drinks at the bar, and so you’re just watching the show. 

“This is why I like being the youngest,” Han tells you, in a stage-whisper, “I rarely pay for food.” 

You shake your head when Chris wins the argument by bodily shoving Changbin out of the way with his hip, slapping his card down on the counter victoriously.

As the four of you leave the restaurant, Han jostles Chris.

"Hyung, do you wanna share a cab back? I need to get that textbook from you too."

"Ah, I'm going to Y/N's," Chris says, "but you can take my key to get it, just pass it back to me tomorrow."

"I'm gonna sleep at your place again then," Han declares, pocketing the key, "my roommate fucking sucks."

“Remember to clear your trash,” Chris reminds him, and Changbin rolls his eyes. 

“Honestly, Jisungie, just tell your roomie to get his act together.”

“Hey, Chan-hyung isn’t using his bed at the moment, why should I choose confrontation when there's another solution,” the other boy retorts, and the bickering continues as the group of you walk out to the main street, where it’s easier to get a cab. 

Chris’ hand finds yours, and you lace your fingers together.

***

Chris stays over with you more often than not, because well, his own apartment is a shoebox at the best of times, and your place is pretty sizable. When you moved to Seoul, you’d opted for a longer commute in exchange for a nicer flat and more space, and so you’re the proud tenant of a one-bedroom apartment in a quiet residential neighbourhood. 

Sure, it takes you nearly forty minutes to get to work, but you actually have a proper balcony to house your growing collection of plants, and plenty of storage space in the cabinets. Plus, you’re pretty spartan about decorating, so when you and Chris stumble into the apartment, all messy kisses and wandering hands, you don’t run the risk of knocking anything over when you shrug your jacket off your shoulders and toss it somewhere behind you.

The downside, compared to his studio, is the distance between the front door and the bed, but whatever. 

“Chris, sweetheart, let me get my shoes off,” you mutter against his lips, from where he’s got you backed up against the wall, and he hums, dropping to one knee so that he can help you out of your boots, black suede with stiletto heels. 

“Your legs look really good in these,” he tells you, fingers digging into the arch of one foot, and you sigh in relief.

“They make my feet hurt,” you complain, and he presses his lips to the delicate shooting star tattooed around your ankle, rubbing his thumb over the skin soothingly.

He skims his hand up your skirt, his smile turning cocky when his fingers hit lace.

"All dressed up for me?" he asks, and you quirk your lips.

"Maybe," you murmur, and you curl your fingers into his collar, hauling him back up into another searing kiss. You pull him towards the bedroom, his sneakers kicked off somewhere in the entranceway, his belt chucked onto the floor, and soon you have him sprawled on your bed. His shirt is unbuttoned, and there's a bruise blooming at his throat, dark against his skin. 

Chris curls his hands around the waist of your skirt, fingers at the zipper.

"Come on, I wanna see," he says, his voice rough, and you smile, stepping back to shimmy out of your skirt and pull off your sweater. 

The punched-out noise he makes when he gets a look at you is reward in itself. You'd been bored on the train to work last week, and had indulged in a spot of online shopping, the result of which was a navy blue bra with matching panties, all sheer fabric and lace, intricate patterns that stand out against your skin, the fabric hugging the swell of your body.

"Baby," Chris says, eyes wide, "you look amazing." 

"Thank you," you reply, climbing back into his lap, and his hands immediately go to your ass, pulling you closer against him as he mouths at your nipple through the thin fabric. You moan at the touch, and tangle your fingers in his hair.

"Is there an occasion for this?" Chris asks, sucking a bruise into your collarbone, and you shrug, rolling your hips and enjoying the way he grinds his hardness against you, the warmth of him obvious through his jeans.

"Maybe I just like keeping you on your toes," you say, your hand going to his fly, and he leans in to kiss you as you get his cock out.

"No complaints," he says into your ear, his hand dipping beneath your panties, and you sigh with pleasure when he finally rubs his fingers against your clit.

There isn't much room to say much else, after that, not when you're both occupied with hands on skin, when you've gotten his clothes off and you're between his legs with your mouth hot and wet around him, when he all but rips off your underwear, hiking one leg up as he pushes into you, the length of him filling you up as you pull him closer, the two of you chasing pleasure feverishly.

It's maddening, when he spills inside you, and then he gets on his knees again, eating you out messy and wet.

You ride that wave to the edge, and it's euphoria.

***

The next morning dawns bright and crisp, and it's about twenty minutes to eleven when you finally peel yourself out from under Chris' arm, pulling on a pair of running shorts and one of his t-shirts from the closet, oversized and slipping off your shoulders. He sleeps like the dead, and you know it's been a long week, work and his last semester of school running him ragged, so you just brush your lips over his forehead before you go freshen up, tidying up the mess from the night before.

When you're done, you put the kettle on, and go sit on the small bench you have in your balcony, slipper-clad feet propped up on the edge of the planter that houses your perilla leaves as you smoke a cigarette, a blanket across your lap to ward off the morning chill.

You're probably traumatising the plants, but hey, they need carbon dioxide to make oxygen, right?

You finish the cigarette, stubbing it out in the ashtray you have in your balcony, folding the blanket neatly on the bench. You begin making tea next, and while waiting for it to cool, you stare at your fridge, trying to figure out what to do for brunch.

The doorbell rings.

"Coming!" you call, letting the fridge thump shut, and you cross the room to answer the front door.

There's a delivery man standing there, carrying a large, rectangular box.

"Good morning," he greets, "I have a delivery for Bang Chan-ssi?"

"I'll sign for it," you answer, glad that your Korean doesn't sound too awkward, and it's a moment's work to scrawl your signature across the man's iPad, taking the box from him and bringing it into the house.

You set it on the coffee table, nudging a pile of Chris' textbooks aside to make room. Judging by the size of the box and the details on the shipping label, it looks like the new synth he mentioned ordering a few weeks back. He tends to have his packages sent to your place - he's rarely home to receive them, and there's a lower likelihood of someone stealing parcels that get left outside the door in your neighborhood, so most of his online shopping is sent to your address. Heck, he even gets his mom to have the care packages she sends from Australia delivered to your place, and with that thought in your mind, you help yourself to one of the Tim-Tams she'd sent along in the most recent delivery, chewing on it while you contemplate the contents of your fridge.

You vaguely register the bedroom door opening, and then there's a warm body draping itself against your back, Chris' arms coming up to wrap around your waist, his head propped up on your shoulder.

"Morning," he mutters into your hair, and you smile, leaning back into his embrace.

"Morning," you say, "how do you feel about wraps for brunch? There are some tortillas left and I wanna finish up the beef bulgogi from Thursday."

"Sure," he says, pressing an absent kiss to the butterfly inked into your shoulder, exposed by the open collar of your stolen shirt, "but first, coffee."

"You have a delivery, by the way," you tell him, after he's made his coffee using the instant powder you keep around for his sake, and he grins when he spots it on the coffee table.

"Oh, it's the synth I ordered! Sweet," he says, taking a gulp of his drink, setting the mug down to open the package.

You watch him from where you're leaning against your kitchen counter, a smile playing on your lips, and you take a sip of your tea. There’s brunch to be made and chores to be done, but for now, you just watch the man you love in motion. 

***

Chris is spinning at one of the clubs at Itaewon on Saturday night, and look, you're twenty-seven, you’re too tired for loud music and flashing lights two nights in a row. You should probably try and catch up on sleep, but against your better judgment you find yourself at a 24-hour cafe near the university campus instead, making your way through a matcha latte with Jiwoo, Jeongin, and their pile of textbooks beside you.

It turns out they’re both in the same ‘Introduction to Children’s Literature’ class, by virtue of Jiwoo being a child psych major and Jeongin working towards being qualified as a kindergarten teacher, and their Monday morning midterm means Jeongin opted for studying instead of clubbing. There are plans to get supper, after Chris is done with work, and so you're really just hanging out with them to kill time. 

You’ve got your ‘Talk To Me In Korean’ textbook open, in a kind of solidarity with the two study bugs you’re sharing the table with, and for lack of any other entertainment, you're diligently working your way through the section on prepositions. 

Two hours into the study session, Jeongin's phone lights up with a notification, and he abandons his notes in favour of answering it. 

“Changbin-hyung says Chan-hyung just wrapped up his set, so we can meet for supper in about twenty minutes, they’re gonna cab over,” he tells you. 

“Sure,” you say, “Jiwoo, wanna come with?” 

“Why not, it’s not like I’m gonna get anything else done tonight,” she says, and you cast a glance at your watch. It’s almost two-thirty in the morning, and so the three of you begin packing up your things to head towards the supper joint, a tteokbokki place fifteen minutes away on foot.

Jiwoo and Jeongin have social circles that overlap, at university, and you listen to their gossip as you walk. It's the usual college bullshit, talking about people in their classes and who's hooking up with who, and it's nice to know that university is pretty much the same, all over the world, just high school on steroids with simultaneously lower and higher stakes in all sorts of different ways.

When you get to the restaurant, you wave the two of them in ahead of you.

"You guys go ahead and get us a table, I need a smoke," you say, and Jiwoo nods, ducking into the restaurant with Jeongin. You light your cigarette, and stand a ways off from the restaurant, just looking at the city lights while you smoke.

"Got a light?" a familiar voice says in greeting, and you smile, raising your cigarette to Chris' lips. He takes a drag, and he kisses you, the smoke mingling between your breaths when he exhales. You let him have the rest of the cigarette, turning to say hello to Felix, Changbin, and surprisingly, Hyunjin.

"When did you get back in town?" you ask, returning the hug he gives you, and Hyunjin laughs. His hair has been cropped to his shoulders and dyed a bubblegum pink, and it's a look that'd be tacky on anyone but him. 

"Five hours ago! I'm jetlagged like fuck and can’t sleep, so here I am," he says, and you smile. Hyunjin spends most of his time out of the country, walking runways and appearing in commercials, and it's rare that he's in town and available to hang out - you're sure the guys are pleased.

"Where's Han and Seungmin?" you ask, and Felix rolls his eyes.

"Jisung had his tongue down someone's throat and flipped us off when we told him we were leaving, so I guess he's not interested in tteokbokki," he explains, "and Seungmin's with his new girlfriend." 

You know Minho's away for work, somewhere in New York with one of the idol groups he performs with, so that’s everyone in the ‘Stray Kids’ accounted for. Chris flicks the butt of your shared cigarette into the dustbin, and the gaggle of you spill into the restaurant.

"Hyunjin!" Jeongin hollers, when he sees the other man, "you're back!" 

"I am!" Hyunjin declares, and it's chaos as everyone tries to find seats at the table, chattering rapidly in a mixture of English and Korean. You wind up across from Chris, your ankles tangled together, Jiwoo by your side. She's friends with Jeongin, she knows Chris thanks to you, and she's met Changbin and Felix a few times, so she's generally quite comfortable with the guys. 

However, this is her first encounter with the full force of Hwang Hyunjin and his devastatingly handsome face that has been splashed across billboards, and you can tell she's a little overwhelmed.

“Oh my god,” Jiwoo says, after she’s been introduced, “aren’t you in that Cartier commercial with Lisa from Blackpink?” 

Hyunjin beams. 

“You recognise me! No one ever looks at my face in that ad,” he says, pouting, “all they care about are my abs.” 

“Boohoo, you’re beautiful and the sweater you’re wearing today is Gucci,” Jeongin interjects, casually cruel in the way only the baby of the group can be, “come on, let’s order, I’m starving.” 

Tteokbokki spills across the table, accompanied by bottles of soju and plates of sundae, and you’ve commandeered a platter for yourself, splitting it and a portion of tteokbokki with Chris, who’s always happy to mop up your leftovers. 

“You’ve adapted to Korea pretty well, Y/N,” Felix tells you, when he sees the way you’re getting through the blood sausage, and you laugh. 

“I’ve adapted to Korean _food_ well,” you correct, and Changbin shakes his head. 

“Nah, you’re doing great. Like, you totally cursed someone out in Korean at the bar we were playing at last month,” he remarks, and Hyunjin, who thrives on drama, looks up excitedly from his food. 

“Ooh, what happened?” 

“Just told off an asshole who was harassing a girl,” you say, trying to brush it off, but Changbin doesn’t let you. 

“Noona, you poured your drink over the guy’s head and ripped into him so bad he nearly cried,” he says, like it's so cool, “I didn’t realise you knew so many Korean swear words.” 

“Y/N watches a lot of gangster dramas,” Jiwoo offers, and you elbow her in the side. 

“They’re way more exciting than sappy romances,” you shoot back, and she gasps in offence. Hyunjin interjects with a comment on his much-loved _dramatic_ romances, which differ greatly from the sappy ones, and the conversation moves on to the merits of different kinds of dramas.

You plop a large piece of sundae onto Chris’ plate, and you brush your ankle against his, flashing him a soft smile that you’re relieved he returns. The altercation you had at the bar is a great story to tell, but when it had actually happened Chris had been furious, agitated at your inability to stay out of trouble and worried about your safety. You, on the other hand, had had a bad day at the office, and you'd never learned how to back down from a fight, not when other people needed help and especially not when you felt you were in the right.

The resulting shouting match - and the ensuing makeup sex - in your kitchen at 4AM had gotten you a noise complaint from your neighbours, but at least you and Chris had come out of it with a better understanding of where the other was coming from. 

Neither of you are easy people to be with, and it’s a work in progress, but what matters is that you're both trying.

“By the way, can I crash at someone’s tonight?” Hyunjin interjects, “I forgot my keys and mom will kill me if I wake her up to let me back in.” 

"You're a disaster," Felix says, fondly, "but sorry bro, I’m out." 

He and Jeongin both live on campus, in student dorms with roommates, so their rooms are out of the question. Changbin lives with his sister, who doesn't take kindly to him having people over without warning, so Hyunjin turns his version of the puppy dog eyes on Chris.

"Hyung, please?" he pleads, and Chris rolls his eyes, fishing his key out of his pocket.

"Jisung crashed there last night so it's not my fault if it's a mess," he says, sliding the key across the table.

Hyunjin blinks.

"Wait, are you not going back to your place after this?"

"I'm staying with Y/N tonight," Chris explains, and Changbin smiles.

"Hyung, when was the last time you slept at your own apartment?" he asks, and - 

Huh. Now that you think about it, you can count on one hand the number of times in the last two weeks Chris _hasn't_ spent the night at your place.

You see Chris coming to a similar realization.

"Wow, I think it was Tuesday night," he remarks, turning to you, lacing your fingers together with his, and you hum.

"Sounds about right, you have an early lecture most Wednesdays," you answer, thoughtfully, and Jiwoo chuckles.

"You guys are actually living in each other's pockets," she says, smiling at the two of you, and she's not wrong.

***

The realization comes to you on Wednesday night.

Chris is still on campus, working on some new music in one of the production studios, and he likely won't get back till late, if at all. You're alone, and you're folding the laundry in the living room with a rerun of Running Man playing in the background when your landlady drops by.

Ms Kim is a returnee of sorts - she married an American soldier and raised three children in Seattle, moving back to Seoul when her husband passed on. While she’s pretty open-minded for an old Korean woman, she has _opinions_ about the presence of a man in your apartment and the absence of a ring on your finger, right from the first time she came over to pass you the manual for the washing machine and found Chris on your sofa, and she’s made those opinions known. 

"Where's that boy of yours?" she asks, setting a giant canvas bag filled with containers on your kitchen table, "it's past eight, isn't he back yet?"

"He's still on campus, ajumma."

"Does he intend to take the train all the way here from the university at this hour?"

You resist the urge to tell her that on the weekends, the two of you get back to the flat in the wee hours of the morning - anything before midnight is early in your book.

"If it's too late he'll just stay at his own apartment," you answer, as Ms Kim opens your fridge and begins stuffing it with the containers of side dishes she brought along with her. She likes to pop in once in a while, claiming that she’s making sure you haven’t burned the place down with your cigarettes, but each visit is accompanied by a surplus of banchan in your house. She always insists that she makes too much and is offloading it to you because she doesn't like wasting food, but it's just bluster. 

The two of you are kindred spirits, so you know what's up. 

"He has his own place? Why does he bother when he practically lives here, it's not cost-effective," she says, and you press your fingers to your eyes. 

"Ajumma, Chris doesn't live here."

She scoffs.

"My dear, just look at your laundry and tell me what you see."

You humour her, and take a look at the piles on your coffee table. You have a system for folding the laundry - your clothes go on the left, Chris' go in the middle, miscellaneous items like towels go on the right, and anything that needs to be ironed goes into the basket.

"What am I supposed to see?" you ask, confused.

"Look at how many sets of underwear he has in your laundry! If he doesn't live here, why would there be so many, you just need one or two for emergencies," she declares, like it's a revelation, and maybe it is, because - 

Well, she’s got a good point, doesn’t she? You keep a set of clothes at Chris’ apartment, on the off-chance a gig ends late enough that the commute back to yours isn’t worth the hassle, but that’s about it. It’s a different story at your place, because there are signs of Chris’ presence all over the apartment, a slow progression over the months that you hadn’t even noticed. 

His clothes in your laundry, his sneakers and flip-flops occupying the space next to your shoes in the entryway, textbooks and worksheets scattered across the coffee table, his hair gel next to your face creams in the bathroom. His new synthesizer is propped up under the television, and there’s instant coffee powder in the cabinet with your teabags, protein powder and nutrition bars taking up residence next to your trail mix and potato chips.

You have a key to his flat but he has the key to your house _and_ to your letterbox, he sends mail to your address, and on the nights he opts to sleep at his own place your bed seems too big and empty, even though it certainly didn’t feel that way when you first moved in. 

“Oh my god,” you say, the realization dawning on you, and Ms Kim snorts.

“You young people, always so oblivious,” she tells you, shoving a giant container of japchae into the fridge and closing it decisively, “I’m going home, tell me when you want to add him to the lease properly.” 

“I thought you didn’t approve of people living together before marriage?” you say, arching an eyebrow at her hypocrisy, and she flaps a hand at you.

“It is not the done thing in Korea, but you and that boy of yours are both foreigners,” Ms Kim says dismissively, “besides, people nowadays like to do trial runs before committing, yes? Marriage isn’t Netflix, but I suppose there’s a logic to that.” 

She pauses. 

“Although,” she starts, and yep, you know where this is going, “you _really_ should consider getting married soon, you’re not all that young anymore -”

“Thanks, Ms Kim,” you say, taking her by the arm to lead her towards the door, “by the way, have you managed to watch ‘Queen’s Gambit’?” 

The conversation about the show carries on until she’s out of the apartment and yelling from the elevator about eating the japchae before it goes bad, right till the doors slide shut. 

You close your apartment door in relief, although you’re not sure if your thoughts are any better. 

***

The conversation happens like this. 

Saturday afternoons are usually slow, at your place. 3RACHA has performances on the weekends more often than not, with Friday night being a particularly popular timeslot, and so the day doesn’t really begin until it’s almost lunchtime. You’re tackling the ironing for the week, because the skirts and blouses you wear to the office aren’t going to press themselves, and Chris is sitting at the kitchen table, rolling some rice balls for dinner. 

There’s a soft Korean ballad coming out from the little Bluetooth speaker Jiwoo had given to you as a housewarming gift, and it’s nice and calming - domestic. 

Chris sighs, shifting in his seat. 

“The lease on my apartment is going to be up next month,” he says, apropos of nothing, and you determinedly iron out a crease down your blouse. 

“Oh? Are you planning on renewing it?” you ask, placing the shirt on a hanger before plopping it onto the sofa and moving on to one of your skirts. He shrugs, setting a round glob of rice, ham, and seaweed onto a plate. 

“Probably not? The landlord wants to jack up the rent, and it’s getting ridiculous given that, you know, it’s an actual shoebox,” he tells you, wrinkling his nose adorably. 

“Valid,” you tell him, as you iron out your skirt. He sighs, and finishes rolling another one, placing it next to its sibling. 

“I’ve been looking, but house-hunting really sucks and I hate having to move in the middle of the semester,” he grumbles, and you can relate. You’ve lived your entire adult life in places owned by other people, from college dorms to shitty rental apartments, and the process of finding a place, negotiating rent, and moving can be awful - you honestly lucked out with the place you have in Seoul. 

You hang up the skirt, adding it to the pile on the couch, and hum thoughtfully. 

It’s an opening if you’ve ever seen one, and well, it’s been on your mind. 

“You know,” you say, casually, “you could just move in properly here.” 

Chris blinks. 

“What?” 

You set the iron down.

“You’re here all the time, sweetie,” you say, and then you tell him all about your Wednesday night revelation, about how you realised that the two of you spend so much time together, how the apartment feels like it's his as much as it's yours, your toothbrushes side-by-side by the bathroom sink, his socks tangled up with your stockings in the laundry bag, his earrings next to the half-finished novel on the table next to what’s become his side of the bed. 

“You don’t have to, if you’re not comfortable with the idea,” you tell him, because there is a difference between staying over all the time and actually living together, “and I won’t be upset if you decide not to, but it’s an option.”

Chris looks at you, for a long, considering moment.

“I guess I have actually technically moved in, huh,” he remarks, looking a little struck, and you laugh. 

“It sure seems like it,” you answer, and he smiles then, that little quirk of his lips you adore. 

“Let’s make it official then,” he says, boyish and handsome, and you switch off the iron, abandoning it in favour of crossing the room and climbing into his lap.

You take his face between your hands, he peels off the plastic gloves he’d been using while handling the rice balls, and his hands come to rest on your waist as your lips meet, the kiss long and slow and deep. 

“Your friends will miss having a place to crash at,” you say, and Chris scoffs. 

“They’ll deal,” he murmurs, kissing you again, and you smile, tangling your fingers into his hair. 

“I’ll get your name added to the lease,” you tell him, and his grin mirrors yours. 

***

Chris thinks it’s stupid that his friends want to have a housewarming party, given that you’ve been living in the apartment for over half a year and he’s just moving in officially, but you’re of the opinion that there’s no harm in having them come round for dinner. It takes a while to find a date when all the ‘Stray Kids’ are available, and winter is firmly on its way when it finally happens. 

Your kitchen table isn’t really big enough to accommodate everyone, but you borrowed an extra table and some stools from Ms Kim, and while things are a little cramped it’s also oddly cozy. You’re pressed up against Chris, Jeongin on your other side, and the table is a mess of beer bottles and side dishes. Your electric grill - a gift from your colleagues - is finally seeing some use, pork belly sizzling on the hot plate, and you actually harvested some perilla leaves from the box in your balcony for the occasion. There’s kimchi stew bubbling in a pot, courtesy of Changbin’s sister, fried chicken delivered from the neighbourhood shop thanks to Minho, and Felix has a large chocolate cake baking in your oven. 

It’s a nice night, filled with laughter and anecdotes and the boys telling stupid, embarrassing stories about each other, and soon the chocolate cake replaces the grill at the centre of the table, everyone delighting in the decadence of it. 

“You guys have such a nice apartment,” Hyunjin says, between bites of cake, “but seriously, do you not have any decor at all?” 

You cast a look around the living room. 

He does have a point. You’ve lived your entire adult life in places furnished by other people, and you saw no need to change that when you moved to Seoul. Sure, the apartment is lived in - you and Chris have a lot of stuff, what with his synthesizers and your gardening tools and everything else the two of you own - but there’s very little personality beyond the things you have lining the shelves and filling the cupboards. 

“I guess it’s something we never thought about,” Chris remarks, and you hum. 

“I’m not even sure where we’d start,” you admit, because most of what you buy for your apartment is based on pure functionality, and Hyunjin scoffs.

“Well, I can help with that,” he says, reaching for his bag, and he pulls out a gift-wrapped package, plonking it in front of you and Chris. 

“Ooh, what’s this,” Minho says, and the rest of the group turns their attention towards you. 

“It’s a housewarming gift,” Hyunjin says, grinning, “open it!” 

You let Chris do the honours, and when he peels off the last of the wrapping, you feel a soft smile crossing your lips. 

Hyunjin has a gift for photography, even though he spends most of his time in front of a camera, and the photo that’s been placed in the elegant white frame sitting in front of you looks almost artful. You’re not sure when the picture was taken, but it’s a lovely shot, one of you and Chris outside a late-night restaurant, probably after one of 3RACHA’s performances, the two of you illuminated by the streetlight. He’s got his arm around your shoulders, pressing a kiss to your cheek, and you’re laughing, probably at something he said, the faint glow of a cigarette present between your fingers, a moment frozen in time on film. 

The two of you look happy, and your heart swells. 

“Thank you, Hyunjin,” you tell him, and he grins, “it’s really gorgeous.”

“When did you take this?” Seungmin asks, peering at the image. 

Hyunjin shrugs.

“Maybe two months ago? It felt like it’d make a good shot, so I went for it,” he says, easily, “I’m glad it turned out well.” 

Chris smiles, and picks up the frame, moving to place it on the shelf that sits near the entryway, where your keys and his wallet usually end up. 

“It’s a good start,” he says, and you reach out to him, tangling your fingers together and pulling him into a kiss that earns you wolf-whistles and cheers from the circus that’s gathered around the table. 

“It really is,” you tell him, and you’re not just talking about the decor.

His grin is brilliant, and you kiss him again. 

***

**Author's Note:**

> \- Thank you for reading <3 comments and kudos are always lovely.  
> \- If you’ve been following along on this ride, thanks for sticking with me! I’ve only got one more main part to this story planned, but I do have a few ideas for shorter snapshots, and as we have all learned in 2020 life is full of the unexpected, so I’m not quite done with the adventures of Chris and Y/N just yet.  
> \- Bonus points if you realised Y/N has gotten a new tattoo, it looks a little something like [this](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/281543714985169/%E2%80%9D%20rel=).  
> \- You can find me on Instagram @omaisvt, please feel free to scream at me about SKZ/SVT/K-pop <3  
> \- Happy New Year, y’all.


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